


Gojitoad's Whumptober 2020!

by gojitoad



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Chapter Warnings Apply, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Trauma, Violence, Vomiting, Whump, Whumptober, non-consensual touching is SFW, will update tags daily
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26755930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gojitoad/pseuds/gojitoad
Summary: Prompts from the wonderful whumptober challenge!Each chapter will have specific tags in the notes (for the sake of saving space) so please check those as well as the prompts! Enjoy <3
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Day 1: Waking Up Restrained

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Welcome to the start of my whumptober challenge. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Head injury, blood, restraints, mention of drug use, profanity, blood loss

The first thing he noticed was the dripping. The repetitive noise was a sharp contrast to the deafening silence that surrounded him. He felt like he was blanketed in a cloud, his hearing dulled, his breaths coming in with some resistance. Except for that dripping.

_Plink. Plink._

_Must have rained last night, hope I closed the window._ Kashmir cracked open his eyes, despite his body’s protest. The first thing he noticed was how he was positioned. He was sitting, his head hanging down as he gazed at his legs. Second, why was he so dirty? Had he been out gardening late again? Did he stumble in through the rain? He didn’t remember.

The third, and more alarming thing that Kashmir noticed was that he couldn’t move his arms. He thought really hard about it, pushing out with his biceps, curling his fingers. Nothing. Ok, this wasn’t just from picking some tomatoes after sunset.

Luckily for him, he wasn’t alone. A figure sat a short distance across from him. His shoulders were slumped forward, his back pressed against a cool, stone wall. His face was round and tan from hours spent out in the sun, some sunburn peeking out around his eyebrows. His hair was a vibrant red, braids here and there, swept up into a loose pony.

“Histor?” Kashmir’s voice cracked, and he groaned. Thankfully, his companion stirred, so he didn’t need to repeat himself.

Histor’s reaction was much, much different than Kashmir’s. He sat straight up, eyes blinking repeatedly, presumably clearing the haze. He struggled with his body, maybe testing to see what he could move. There was panic on his face, then, anger, red and hot growing around his nose as he exhaled sharply. As if he hadn’t realized who woke him, he suddenly whipped his head to look at Kashmir.

“Kash?!” His exclamation was loud, louder than the plinking. Kashmir winced. Histor noticed this and took a better look at his friend, eyes going from confused to shocked to concerned. “Kash, oh _shit._ ”

“Hello,” Kashmir mused. Why was this so funny to him. Interesting. “How high am I?” He moved to sit up, but was stopped by a sharp, stinging sensation running from the back of his neck to his temple.

“No, nonono, ahaha, don’t move,” Histor looked really, _really_ funny with that face on. His unimpressionable, seen-it-all best friend partner in crime, was looking at him like he was some dead rabbit that he felt bad about killing. Huh.

“Ok, cut the crap. What happened last night?” He hoped to _god_ that this was just some sort of mess up -- Histor had somehow gotten him really drunk or crossed and they were just in some douche’s basement, waiting for the prank to end. He did not expect Histor’s stricken face. “Oh, and will you stop looking at me like _that?_ I’m not some lame jersey you won in a brawl.”

“…Sorry.” Perhaps Kashmir was being a little harsh. In truth, he wasn’t really that concerned at the moment, but that was largely because he still felt really fucking high. Also, his head. His head hurt _so much._

“What do you remember?” Histor spoke after a moment.

“Remember? Like what? My name is Kashmir, you’re my shitty best friend Histor who won’t just tell me why we are here so I can get it over with and go home-“

“Kash, we aren’t sitting in some loser’s pit,” Histor interrupted him sharply. His face was way too serious. Kashmir bit his lip to keep from giggling. “The heist? Do you really not remember?”

Heist. Heist. _Heist._ That was an important word. A fun one, too. But as Kashmir wracked his brain for any connections, he came up blank. His head gave another pitiful throb, and he was once again reminded of the water dripping.

“No. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Histor released a sigh, almost hysterical, then closed his eyes. They sat for a minute, Kashmir listening to Histor quietly curse under his breath.

“Ok, here’s how we are gonna handle this. You got hit on the head, I don’t know how bad, but you look like shit, dude. Don’t move around too much or do anything too fast, alright? Not until I can take a better look at it. As for the rest..” He exhaled. “We were on a mission. Top class, S rank. We came here for goods. Not just any goods, Duke Ythisma’s fucking marriage hairpiece, bro. His fucking _wedding gift from his spouse._ ”

Kashmir recoiled. He clenched his jaw, wiggled his legs a little, testing. Still not allowed to move. Fuck. “Oh my god,” he was so dead. “Oh. Oh my god?” he could feel it now, the slight pounding coming from the left side of his head, the light wetness, what felt like sweat moving on his forehead, but there was too much of it. Too much liquid.

“Oh no, no, bro just take a breath. Just breathe, my man. Don’t have one of those freak outs right now.” Histor looked grumpy, schooling his expression to seem more professional. _Oh, he’s taking care of me._

“You’re nice,” Kashmir wheezed. His heart was racing, breaths coming in sharp gasps. “Do you, happen to know if I brought any chillers with?” Weed, or chillers as he sometimes called them, since they helped keep him from having episodes like this, were a staple in Kashmir’s diet. He really hoped past him had been smart. “I mean. Obviously, we prepared for the chance of us getting caught?”

Histor let out a breath he had been holding. A vein on his forehead was pulsing. Kash really wanted to touch it. “Ok bud, hang on a sec.” He wiggled around some, and it took a moment for Kash to realize he was moving closer to him.

“Woah, absolutely not! No, you know the physical contact rule. Not on missions. I get all weird and clammy, stop, stopstopstop-“

“BRO chill out! How else am I supposed to give you a hit?” Kash froze. Oh. Right, they couldn’t move. Testing again, it felt like some sort of magic ward put up, but on his arms, like if they moved any further apart they’d bump into it. Great.

Meanwhile, Histor had moved up snugly against him, and was trying to pass him something that was clenched in his teeth. Kashmir looked at him sceptically.

“I don’t do the chewable shit. You know that.”

Histor scowled and moved his head so he was able to put it back in his chest pocket with his mouth. “Ok, I just figured it would help better than nothin’.” He sniffed and looked away.

“Oh, cut that shit. When has you assuming shit ever gotten us anywhere?” Histor stiffened.

“It got us here, asshole. And don’t play dumb, we both put our cards down and figured it would work out.” He started scooching away, to Kash’s relief. All at once, the pounding on his head worsened and he felt more liquid drip from his head.

“Ow,” he grumbled, head falling towards his lap again.

Histor whipped his head around again. He started wiggling, sharply and with more urgency. He appeared to be getting more and more frustrated at his useless attempts. He finally let out a terse growl and stopped moving.

“You’re so mad.”

“No, I’m not mad.”

“Yeah you are, bro.”

“No, Kash, I’m not mad, you’re just fucking bleeding out.”

…

_Oh._

Kashmir wondered again, briefly, if he really would die here. Suddenly, the morbid image of Histor stuck in this dungeon, next to his rat-eaten corpse made it into his head and he started to laugh again.

“Bro, I know you are suffering from trauma right now but can you please, _please,_ stop doing that.” Histor’s voice had changed, Kash noticed. It wasn’t his usual, irritated yet amused tone.

“Hey, are you upset? What’s wrong?” Histor let out a shaky breath and said nothing. Kashmir felt a coldness creep into him, settling in his bones. “Histor? Hey, hey I’m kinda scared? Bro, like, sorry for my episode earlier but can you like, help me? My head really hurts..”

Histor made another noise that Kashmir couldn’t really make out. His ears had started to ring, and he felt a pressure on his sinuses. Something wet dripped from his nose. 

Everything went black.


	2. 02: Pick Who Dies / Collars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really behind on these, might end up posting in batches tbh but im determined to finish! 
> 
> chapter warnings: non-consenting drug use, physical violence, post-war fic

Sandu liked to think that he was used to situations like these. His political rise occurred in the middle of a damned war, his influence had always come at a cost, whether it be icy words of betrayal or a knife snuck into a banquet. 

But this? This was a whole new animal. 

Sandu had been responsible for countless, innumerable lives. It was hard not to be, and he tried not to dwell too much on the fact. He was the figurehead of a political party. There was no way for him to be fast enough in diplomatic meetings to save every last life. But he tried. Gods, did he try. 

His patience was truly being tested here. Sandu tried to calm his frustrations and take in his current situation. He was standing, next to some other important land owners, barons, and military personnel. They were supposed to have a short meeting- maybe over a meal- to determine what to do with the small 50-some group of sorcerers who had been stranded in an old manor. The circumstances were a little rocky; for one, the sorcerers had refused to return to their homelands, claiming discrimination. Sandu could sympathize. This land was cruel. His own position was claimed narrowly before his own execution. 

But that didn’t change the matter. Politically speaking, this group of sorcerers posed a threat. They were not balanced by disciples to help guide their magic usage, they owed nothing to the magic rules of this land, and furthermore, seemed content to owe nothing to its people either. 

If Sandu could have it his way, he would simply walk into their enclave, politely ask if they were okay and needed any resources, food, or protection, and leave. 

But this wasn’t just _his_ decision. His ideas were obviously different: considered very lenient, trusting, liberal. Radical. 

His radical elf sorcerer brain, against that uptight military personnel. Yikes. If he wasn’t used to this type of meeting, he would have pounded his hands on the table and swept off to do what he pleased. But no. He was the head of a revolution. He was a _proper politician._ The words made him sick. But alas. 

It was supposed to be this. A small, polite, diplomatic meeting. What it was quickly becoming was a problem. These military men and even some of the barons still held some contempt towards magic users. Sandu fought the urge to roll his eyes at this idea, something so played out it was almost laughable. 

Finally, a man broke from his rank, stepping out to address the crowd. “If we save them, then I want the sorcerer in this room to take their place.” _Huh?_

A few murmurs, a few glances in Sandu’s direction. The man stood with defiance clear in his rigid posture. 

Sandu had long since ceased bringing his personal guard with him everywhere he went, despite a few warnings. They weren’t at war anymore, they had extreme political influence, almost as powerful as the church. This type of idea, well, it was frankly absurd. 

He voiced this opinion, loudly. The man’s demeanor seemed to shrink at his biting words. Good. This situation was so tiring, so completely perplexing. Sandu would definitely need a nap and a good chat with his favorite trainees to cheer himself up after. 

But he still felt uneasy, even as this man grudgingly stepped back. After the word of a couple of barons aligned with Sandu’s party, the air felt tight. An energy was charged, and he couldn’t find where. 

Suddenly, he felt a swoosh--- light as a feather but sharp as glass--- fly past his cheek. A sting. He swiped it with his fingers. Crimson blood came back. 

He blinked. His vision seemed to be coming into focus slowly. Before him, there were countless soldiers. The throats of his allies had been slit, their bodies crumpled on the floor. People were screaming, sounds of metal clashing with metal rung in his ears. 

His body was falling, lightly. Like a leaf brushing through the wind. I must be dying, he surmised. When he died, he always figured it would be something quick, meaningful, yet peaceful in his mind’s clarity. He figured he would know when his time was. His den mother always told him that magic users like him are attuned to that sort of thing. 

But then, he felt his back hit something soft, warm. A body? Arms wrapped shakily around his shoulders. Oh, so he wasn’t dying. He was poisoned? 

All noise seemed to stop. He glanced around, noticed that the military men were still standing, untouched. Figures. They were speaking, mumbling sounds against the ringing in his ears. The hands on his body stiffened, becoming more firm. 

He felt something shift again. Hands were ripped off his body. He swayed, limp in the air, until a dull ache rose from his head. He felt a fist clenching in his hair, holding him upright. 

A cool sharpness was pressed to his neck. A blade. Despite his mental confusion, Sandu still tried to soothe his breaths, not risking accidentally killing himself over something preventable. 

Before him, that military man was approaching him again. He was talking, loudly, even though everything sounded like it was underwater. He was tapping Sandu’s temple, moving his fingers to peel his eyelids back. Sandu vaguely realized what he was doing when he reached his hand up to bat the man’s away. 

Laughter, and then things started to come a little clearer. 

“Ah, there he is. I figured the effects would wear off in a few.” The man sounded much too full of himself, voice bouncing off the walls. “Our dear savior, Seer Sandu. Do tell me, do you know this handsome young lad behind you?” Sandu felt his body being turned by whoever was holding his hair. And he _saw_. His brain stuttered to a stop. 

Somehow, someway, his wonderful, elegant, _profound_ , nephew was standing in front of him. Now, this wasn’t his relative by blood, but he was his first general’s son, and as such, was treated as a family member. The boy was no older than 15 at most. He was currently standing with a wire wrapped around his neck. His eyes were wide, filled with fear. 

That laugh, again. The man had walked around so he was on the edge of Sandu’s vision. 

“Oh, that’s what I thought. A little family reunion. Poor boy wants to play savior, but he doesn’t know the lines, huh?” Sandu’s head was still spinning. His voice still hadn’t come back to him, but he felt like he was swallowing coal. 

“Ok, so we play it simple.” The hand on his hair tightened. The boy before him cried out, tears pricking his eyes. “Either we get you, our _esteemed leader_ ,” his voice was disgustingly sweet, sarcasm dripping with each word, “or we kill the boy.” 

Aside from this being blatantly unfair on multiple accounts, Sandu was still stunned. Never had he expected this to be an event that had occurred outside of his nightmares, and he frankly didn’t know how to react. 

“Me. Obviously,” His voice spoke before he had even thought about it. The boy let out a cry as his body was wrenched to one side, thrown on the floor. 

“Uncle!” Sandu ignored him, in favor of staring at this man with as much hatred as he could muster. 

Clearly, his answer was _too_ easy. This man wanted to play games, to make Sandu beg, to break him. While Sandu knew this wasn’t going to happen, that didn’t change this man’s desires. 

“Ugh, typical,” He pulled something out from behind his back. “Alright men. We take both of them. Put these around their necks, so they can’t access their spiritual energy. Oh, and make sure you beat em up a bit. Gotta make survival a challenge, eh?”

Sandu’s vision blurred again as he felt something wind around his neck. It was thick, presumably leather. But whatever it was, his energy was sucked out of his in an instant. His body became limp once again, and he too was thrown to the ground. 

“Uncle!!” This poor farm boy was attempting to crawl towards him. Sandu could at least applaud his loyalty. He was a child. He shouldn’t be here. But as he watched this young boy dragged upwards by his hair, tears streaming down his face as he too was laced into a collar, Sandu couldn’t feel anything but contempt. His blood was boiling, his skin was sheen with a sweat made from nothing but the burning desire to act.

He felt a sharp kick to his ribs. _Protect him._ He watched as they knocked this boy unconscious with a simple punch to the cheek. _Protect. Him._ His vision was blurring with the increasing amount of physical pain he was in, but his mind was ablaze. 

_He had failed._


	3. 03: Forced to Their Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so far behind hahaha!!! don't worry though, I will figure this out, I have plans >:3 
> 
> big BIG content warning for vomit, non-consensual touch (sfw), force-feeding and imprisonment 
> 
> enjoy! :,)

Kashmir squirmed. There is a hand on his back, red-hot and attentive despite his many layers of clothing. His brain is spinning, too many thoughts crawling towards the surface. None of them he can voice. None of them he should voice. 

_Don’t fucking touch me._

The light, airy laugh of the woman behind him is sharp in the mostly quiet room. “Oh Kashy, you’re so stiff. Is that any way to treat your mother?” 

_Don’t call me that._

The hand moves from his back to his shoulder, and suddenly he’s being pushed down, harshly, until his legs give out and he tumbles to his knees. He can feel his pulse racing, blood thruming through his veins. His breaths are coming quicker now. He’s panicking. 

“You are not my mother.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. It shakes with each breath, threatening to break. He’s tired, suddenly. So, so tired. His body betrays him, heart still thundering, limbs weak and shaking.

“Oh honey, you must be exhausted from your journey here.” Her voice doesn’t change at all as she moves away, his body reluctant to move. She walks past the men guarding the door, dismissing them as she goes. She must step out for no more than a minute, but it’s enough time for Kashmir to fully take in his surroundings. 

He has no idea how he got here, how it escalated so fast. He was out farming when the men approached him. Told him his presence was requested by the royal court. Strange. But he didn’t want to cause a scene, much less have his vegetables destroyed. Also, he figured it was just something to do with a witness statement or an identification document he didn’t fill out correctly. 

Instead, he is standing, or, he was, in a dark cellar with those same bodyguards, and her. There were no windows. Just one, half burnt out bulb, wired to the ceiling. The walls are straight concrete, crumbling with age. He could’ve sworn he saw a cement mixer on his way in. 

‘Mother’ came back in, walking directly towards him. Kash’s panic jumped out again, rearing its ugly head as she moved to hold his chin, tilting his head up. 

_Gods, please don’t touch me._

“Sweetheart, you’re so pale. Have you been eating?” She smiled warmly as he didn’t respond. “Well, I guess we’ll have to change that, huh?” 

There was something in her palm. She forced his mouth open with the hand already on his chin, and shoved whatever it was into his mouth. 

It burned. Not with spice, but with raw, acidic heat. He debated not swallowing it, but god he couldn’t help it. His mouth was on fire, and she was now firmly holding his jaw shut. How could someone with such a delicate frame be so strong? Kash gulped, hoping to rid the substance from his taste buds, but as it slid dryly down his throat he could feel even more pain. It was leaving a trail of this burning, stinging. He squints his eyes, daring himself to cry. 

_I will do no such thing._

“Better? I bet you will love the results.” She smiled again and hummed, moving her hand away. “It works really well, I’ve been told the most willing patients had little to no sensation left!” Kash has no idea what she was saying, a raw panic clawing again at his chest, rising into his throat like bile. Maybe it was bile. Oh god, he was gonna puke. 

As he bent forward and spilled the contents of his stomach, the little, square material spilled out with it. His head is foggy and he coughs, trying to rid himself of any lingering nausea. 

“Oh, such a difficult one.” The woman tuts, but made no move to fix the situation. “Ah well, still worth seeing your results. I’ll let you sit and think of your mistakes, hm?” Kash’s body is still shaking, and the burning is still disgustingly stuck to his tongue, along with the lingering bile. But it was better. The door clicked shut as she left, and he was alone. Finally.


End file.
